


Under the Ha-Ha

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-07-24 06:18:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7497345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The road steepens and narrows beneath the wobbly bicycle.  He pedals steadily. He has to get to the ha-ha before the Frenchman.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>This time, he will try not to fall. This time he will try not to die.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Ha-Ha

**Author's Note:**

  * For [open_channel_d](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=open_channel_d).



> Written for the MFUWSS 2016 Easter Egg Challenge
> 
> A gift to open_channel_ d whose prompt was Nightmare.  
> If you squint, you might catch a hint of pre-slash.

 

 

**Somewhere in Switzerland**  
**Spring, 1961**

The man appeared out of nowhere. In the last half-hour not a soul had passed down the dusty, lavender-lined road in front of Marie’s café, yet there he was, seated at one of the outdoor tables, reading a newspaper in the warm spring sunshine.

“Where did he come from?” Sofia the waitress asked Gretel, the other waitress. Sofia went outside, took the man’s order, and came back inside. “Coffee, two eggs, sunny side up, and buttered toast,” she told the cook, then joined Gretel to spy on the man from the doorway of the café.

“Sunny side up? That sounds American,” Gretel said.

“He doesn’t sound American.  He might be English.”  Sofia fetched a cup and saucer, poured the coffee, and handed it to Gretel. “See for yourself.”

Gretel took the coffee to the man, who smiled and said something to her.  Gretel all but bobbed a curtsy and scurried back inside. “I couldn’t tell. All he said was thank you.”  Gretel put a hand to her mouth. “He’s so handsome.”

They watched him sip his coffee and read his newspaper. “Le Monde,” said Sophia. “He’s French.”

“French,” Gretel breathed.

A light breeze ruffled the man’s blond hair, and he lifted a hand to smooth it back into place. Gretel sighed.  The man smiled at something he’d read. Gretel sighed again. Sofia giggled.

“Girls. Get to work. The floor needs sweeping, and the napkins are still waiting to be folded.”  Marie’s stern voice brought the two waitresses back to business.  “I’ll take care of the customer.”

Marie left her perch behind the café’s little wine bar and went outside. Silly schoolgirls.  If they’d paid better attention, they might have seen the man, limping slightly, emerge from the direction of the trees behind the café. They might have seen his right hand tremble as he lifted his cup, spilling coffee, and heard him curse softly. In Russian. They might have guessed he was Russian. But Marie already knew that.  
  
She wondered what was wrong with his hand.  The limp was new too.

“Illya,” she said, approaching him. “What a surprise.” It was not.

“Marie. It’s good to see you. I hope you are well?”   He smiled and took her hands in his.

He was his usual charming self. But his smile was empty. He was tired. Injured. And something else, in his eyes.

“Better than you, I think,” she said. “Eat your breakfast. Then let’s get you settled in.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’d better tell you now, so you know, I’m expecting company later today.”

“I already know. I’ll watch for him while you sleep.”  
\----  


_The road steepens and narrows beneath the wobbly bicycle.  He pedals steadily. He has to get to the ha-ha before the Frenchman._

_This time, he will try not to fall. This time he will try not to die._

_The road arches into the sky. The road is a thin ribbon curling up into the sky with nothing below. The road soars and curves, but the bicycle’s handlebars are stuck and he can’t turn. The bicycle goes over a curve and he falls down, down, sick with vertigo. He feels his face smack into the ground and knows it is the last thing he will—_  
\----

 

Illya sat up and pushed the damp hair from his forehead. He got out of bed and went to get a glass of water from the bathroom.  Last night, at the hospital, he’d driven a car into the sky. The road fell away, the car fell, and he fell.  And died.

Their mission was to install listening devices in and around the estate of a man known only as the Frenchman. The estate was in Switzerland, but the man was French. The Frenchman was one of the richest men in Europe. The man was being courted by Thrush. Victor Marton was a regular guest of the Frenchman. Alexander Waverly wanted the Frenchman.  But first, he wanted to hear what Thrush was up to.

At the planning meeting Illya and Napoleon had studied the map of the Frenchman’s estate, determining the drop-off and rendezvous points.

Illya pointed. “Here. Under the ha-ha.  We’ll be out of sight of the manor but close to the road we’re going in on. Gunter won’t even have to move the car.”

Napoleon raised an eyebrow. “Under the what?”

Illya tapped the map. “The western edge of the estate borders on old pasture land. Gunter says there’s a high stone wall set into the hillside below the manor, running parallel to the road we come in on. The top of the wall is level with the upper part of the hill it’s cut into. It’s a ha-ha wall.”

Napoleon checked the map. “A ha-ha wall.  I take it there’s a joke in there somewhere.”

“The wall prevents the sheep in the lower pasture from getting into the upper gardens. But from above, the wall can’t be seen, so you think you’re seeing an uninterrupted landscape, but it’s an illusion.”

“Some joke,” said Napoleon. “Too bad, sheep, you can’t get at the edelweiss. Maybe that’s why it’s called a ha-ha.”

“Napoleon—”  
\----

 

Gunter came lumbering through the trees in the late afternoon.  His ungainly movements were deceptive. The man was still fast, fierce.

“How are you, old man?” Marie asked, coming through the doorway.

“Who are you calling old?”

“I hear Farenti has you driving these days.  That’s how it begins.”

Gunter grunted. “Where is he?”

She took him to Illya’s cottage. Gunter knocked twice, and when the door opened went in without a word.  
\----

 

The village had settled in for the evening. Even the dogs had given up barking at the fireflies flickering in the meadow behind the guest cottages.  But the light remained lit in Illya’s cottage, as he and Gunther planned and waited for the night to deepen. At midnight the dogs resumed their barking. She checked her window. Illya’s light was out.  They’d gone hunting.

All of the surveillance equipment, Farenti said, had been ferreted out and destroyed by the Frenchman’s people. Illya and Gunter were to go back to the manor under cover of darkness and scout things out. With luck, they would catch the Frenchman, or someone who would lead them to him.

They came back at dawn. Illya trudged off to bed. Gunter declined Marie’s offer of a cottage and drove off. He told her he would be back in six hours.  
\----

 

_He is lying in the long, cool grass under the ha-ha. He wants to move, but cannot. Napoleon kneels over him. Napoleon’s hands move over Illya’s body, travelling the length of his arms, then his legs. Napoleon unbuttons Illya’s shirt, slips his hands inside and runs his hands over Illya’s torso. Napoleon says his name and wraps his arm around Illya’s waist._

_“Illya. Illya.”_

_The sudden glare of the flashlight catches them, blinds him. The Frenchman waves his gun at them. His voice, hard: “Get up, Solo.”_

_Napoleon stands with his back against the stone wall, arms raised, hands behind his head._

_The Frenchman shoots._  
   
_Napoleon falls._  
\----

 

“Illya. Illya.” Marie’s voice came to him.  She was sitting on the bed. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Illya told her.

“You were dreaming,” said Marie.

“I don’t have dreams,” he said.

This was the part they didn’t talk about. About the heart thudding, the blood throbbing in the neck, pounding in the ears. About jerking awake and lying tangled in ropes of twisted bedsheets in a cold sweat, the fevered aftermath of a nightmare.  
He has dreams. He has bad dreams. Nightmares. Outrageous, confused, torture sessions filled with dread, anxiety, fear. Terror. Horror. Panic. Despair.

If he spoke truthfully of his dreams he would be strapped into a straightjacket and assigned a permanent lawn chair on some sunny hillside at an U.N.C.L.E. rest home. If they let him out of his padded cell.

“I think you were dreaming of something very bad,” said Marie. She put a hand on his arm, but seeing his face harden, withdrew it and stood up.

Illya sat up and asked, “What time is it?”

Marie said, “It’s nearly noon. I have some lunch for you.”

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

She was closing the door when he said, “Marie.” She turned to him.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said.

“I’m not offended. I’m not fooled, either.”  She had nightmares of her own to contend with. Marie stepped outside, closing the door behind her, glad to be in the warm, bright sunlight.

Illya got washed and dressed, remembering.

 

He fell. When he woke, he was lying in the grass under the ha-ha. Napoleon was crouched over him, running his hands along his arms and legs, checking for injuries.

“What happened to you?” Napoleon asked, unbuttoning Illya’s shirt, feeling inside for broken ribs and blood.

Illya tried to speak and found he couldn’t. I tripped an alarm wire coming down the terrace, he thought. I ran for it.

Napoleon wrapped an arm around Illya’s waist, easing him into a sitting position, producing a groan from Illya. “I fell over the edge,” he gasped.

“Quite the pratfall. Maybe that’s why it’s called a ha-ha,” said Napoleon, lifting Illya higher.

“Napoleon—”

Illya groaned again and began to black out. Napoleon lowered him to the ground.

A bright light caught them in its glare. The Frenchman stood there, waving a gun at them. He said, “Get up, Solo. Kick your gun to me. Don’t try anything or I’ll shoot your friend.”

Napoleon stood, kicked his gun away. “You don’t have to do this,” he said. “You’re in more danger than you can imagine. U.N.C.L.E. can help you.”

The Frenchman said, “Put your hands behind your head. Do as I say.”

Napoleon raised his arms and put his hands behind his head.

The Frenchman shot Napoleon.

Napoleon fell to the ground.

Then the Frenchman aimed his gun at Illya.

A gunshot blasted from behind the Frenchman and Gunter was there, screaming, “Drop the gun, drop the gun.”

The Frenchman threw his flashlight to the ground and ran off into the darkness. Then Gunter was kneeling beside Illya, his mouth forming words Illya couldn’t hear. Then Illya couldn’t see.

 

When Illya entered the café he saw that Marie had set out bread, slices of cold roast beef, early strawberries, and tea.  The café was silent. He sat and began to eat.

Soon Marie came out from the kitchen and sat at the table with him. “Farenti says Napoleon is doing well.”

“Excellent news.” Illya reached for his tea. Took a long sip. Marie’s news was a great relief. The surgeon had been annoyingly noncommittal.

He looked around the café and realized why it was so quiet. “Marie, where are your waitresses? And the cook?”

“I gave them a few days off. Closed the café for a few days until this is settled,” Marie said. “Are you going to tell me? How was the hunt last night?”

“He wasn’t there. But several of his staff were, as we hoped. They were stocking the pantries and preparing rooms for his return. They’re expecting a Thrush crowd, too, for a dinner party tonight. Farenti’s organizing a big raid.  He’s rounding up every available agent in the region. We’re going in when they sit down to eat. The Swiss Federals are in on it as well. We’ll get the Frenchman tonight.”

Marie took Illya’s hand. “I’ll tell Napoleon when I call him later. He’ll be happy to hear the news.”

Illya wasn’t happy until the Frenchman was led away later that night in handcuffs.

Back at Marie's, he slept well for the first time in days.  
\----

 

_Napoleon’s hands are inside Illya’s shirt, pressing here, there. Napoleon’s arm is around his waist._

He tried to make the dream start again before finishing his nap.  
\----

 

Marie was humming, washing and polishing the flower vases for the tables. Tomorrow she would re-open the café, and the silly schoolgirls would return.  She went to the doorway of the café and watched Illya and Napoleon as they relaxed outside after dinner.  She brought them another bottle of wine. Something nice. Something potent.

They were more than a little tipsy when they decided to take a last look at the scene of the crime.

“Are you all right?” Napoleon’s voice came from the base of the ha-ha, where he was lying in the grass. “You’re pretty quiet.”

Illya had his hand on the stone wall where Gunter’s bullet had gouged a small crater. “I’m fine.”

“You look lost in thought up there.”

“Just remembering something about last night,” Illya replied, and flopped down on the grass next to Napoleon.

“Marie says you’re having nightmares.”

“I was thinking of something else. Not a nightmare.” Illya turned to Napoleon, who had his eyes fixed on the moon up in the sky.

“So you are having nightmares.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“True.”

Illya raised his arms and put his hands behind his head. An all-too familiar image came to him. Napoleon, arms raised. Napoleon, shot. Napoleon, falling.

“I did have nightmares. I kept trying to get to you before the Frenchman did. So he wouldn’t kill you. The road kept us apart, and I died. I couldn’t stop you from dying, either.” Illya paused. “I get the joke now,” he said. “The big ha-ha. We live alone. We die alone. People think they’re all together, but they’re really all alone.”

“That’s depressing,” said Napoleon. “And I disagree. We’re social beings. Interdependent.” He sat up and looked at Illya. “What’s more, you and I aren’t just any people. We’re partners. There aren’t any walls between us. There can’t be. It doesn’t work that way. Mr. Waverly put us together and now we’re more than two ones.”

The painful knot that had been tightening in Illya’s chest for days broke loose as he listened to Napoleon’s words and heard nothing but conviction in his partner’s tone.

Napoleon lay down again alongside Illya and watched the moon. “We’re not alone. It’s not an illusion.”

Illya followed his partner’s gaze. The moon was bright. Filled with light. Filled with life. He closed his eyes and smiled in the dark.  
\----

 

In the early dawn, when Alexander Waverly arrived with Gunter, Marie told them Napoleon and Illya were already at the Frenchman’s manor.

Waverly walked through the main floor of the manor, stopping here and there to examine things, and finally exited through the French doors leading out to the manor gardens. He made his way across the dewy lawn, down the long sloping terrace, to the top of the ha-ha wall, and looked over the edge.

His two agents were asleep in the grass under the ha-ha, its shade sheltering them from the light of day.

Solo was stretched alongside Kuryakin, the lengths of their bodies running as close as possible without touching each other. Not touching at all. But something about the way their faces were turned toward each other—

Waverly cleared his throat and said, “Time to go, gentlemen. The day is wasting.” He turned and strode back up the terrace. “We’ll meet you down there, on the road.”

Kuryakin’s voice came to him from below. “Get your hands off my pants.”

Waverly stopped in his tracks.

“It’s a tick. Hold still.” Solo was chuckling.

“A tick? Where? Ticks can be very—Stop laughing. I suppose you think this is funny.”  
   
“That’s why it’s called a ha-ha,” said Solo.

“Napoleon—”

 

 

The End  


End file.
